


Some Sort of Street

by summerstorm



Category: Good Wife (TV)
Genre: Character of Color, Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Gunplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-04
Updated: 2010-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Did Alicia send you?" Cary asks, smirk firmly in place, voice derisory, comfortable like nobody's holding a gun to his neck. It's an interesting deduction. There was a trial. He said a few unsavory things during closing arguments. Alicia lost. Kalinda's willing to admit it's a reasonable question.</p><p>"No," she says, smiling. "I'm here for me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Sort of Street

**Author's Note:**

> For glassbomb, who asked for Cary/anyone, gave me the prompt "no take-backs," and hopefully doesn't have a gun squick. Title from Anne Sexton.

"Did Alicia send you?" Cary asks, smirk firmly in place, voice derisory, comfortable like nobody's holding a gun to his neck. It's an interesting deduction. There was a trial. He said a few unsavory things during closing arguments. Alicia lost. Kalinda's willing to admit it's a reasonable question.

"No," she says, smiling. "I'm here for me."

"Should have guessed," says Cary. "Physical violence isn't Alicia's style."

"How is this violent?" Kalinda purrs calmly, not looking for an answer, and loosens Cary's tie. She holds both ends in her hand, tugging slightly. Leverage. "Still, since you mentioned it, how does it feel? Having a gun so close to your carotid? Held by someone who knows how to use it?

"That depends." Cary's chest has been rising and falling rhythmically for as long as Kalinda's felt it under her wrist, but it jumps when he pauses this time, a hitch in his breathing. She's holding the gun horizontally to his neck, safe as far as it is a firearm, not quite so pleasant in the way it's hoisting his chin up like a hook. "Is it loaded? Do you plan to point it at me? Do you plan to _shoot_?"

"Does it make a difference?" Kalinda says, turning the gun on him. Cary doesn't move. She drags the muzzle along his jawline, up to his ear, and massages the slope leading down his neck before tracing a triangle ending in the notch of his jugular.

Cary clicks his tongue and tilts his head a fraction. Very daring move. "If it's loaded? I guess I wouldn't know." His voice keeps croaking. It's beautiful. "But the rest of it?" He leaves the question stand as an affirmative, and she turns her handgun to the side again, pressing the grip to the space between his shoulder and collarbone, pointing upwards. Cary's arm tenses, and he keeps his face tilted. Kalinda can count his heartbeats just by looking at his pulse point.

"You're getting off on this," Kalinda says, low and breathy, almost a hiss. It'd sound threatening — it would be threatening — if she weren't having so much fun. A less imposing demeanor is a small price to pay for a chance to make Cary squirm. She saw it in court, the way he looked at the ballistics evidence Alicia presented. They used to work for the same firm; Kalinda knows enough about him to read certain things right.

If you'd told Kalinda just months ago she'd be playing games like this with Cary — well, she might not have been surprised. When she told him she missed him, she meant it — only because she'd had months to realize she would if he left, if not as much as she'd have missed Alicia.

It's a strange kind of missing, she guesses, when missing involves backing someone to his own office wall and pressing the long edge of a gun to the underside of his jaw, and all that person does is blink and stay still.

Kalinda likes that about Cary. He's — accommodating.

"Aren't you?" Cary whispers.

Kalinda offers him a lopsided smile and takes a step forward, supporting her weight on one leg. She considers kneeing him in the balls with the other, but decides against it, pressing her thigh to his crotch instead, feeling him grow hard. "Guess."

"Short version would be yes," he says. The bravado— Kalinda would never admit her genuine love of it, the give and take when there's no real arrogance in it, when it's on a level with hers, but she does like it, and she likes how matter-of-fact it makes his words sound, how believable. "I guess there's a long version you won't share so easily. I can accept that." His voice is strained, raspy. She likes that, too.

"Why don't you hold this for me," Kalinda suggests. It's not a question. Cary knows she doesn't question.

Leisurely, she drags the gun down the side of his pristine white shirt, letting the trigger guard bump on every rib. She trails the gun in a semielliptical trajectory; it ends with the base of her palm resting on the small of his back, perfect angle to stick the gun down the back of his pants. She slides her palm down the barrel, over the surely very expensive fabric. She keeps his eyes on Cary's face throughout.

"What do you want, Kalinda?" Cary asks, tone slow and calm, completely at odds with the way his heart is beating.

"Nothing," she says easily, and grabs one of his hands. He raises an eyebrow, but shakes his head in acquiescence when she locks her eyes on his for an instant. She pulls his arm back until his wrist's sandwiched between his back and the wall. "Bend your elbow."

"Okay," he says, in an off, incredulous tone, but complies.

"Hold onto that," she adds, and wraps his fingers around the grip.

He keeps them there when she lifts her own from his hand; his "Why—" dies out as she slides her foot back and gets down on one knee. She keeps her other leg bent by Cary's, not quite trapping him, but good enough.

"Aren't you glad you let me close the door now?" Kalinda says, feeling one corner of her mouth turn upwards as she undoes his fly and pulls down his pants and underwear. She doesn't hesitate for a second before taking him into her mouth, and he lets out a loud breath at that first contact of her tongue on him. She likes to think of it as the dying breath of vigilance.

Kalinda loves this; the weight on her tongue, the solid heat within her hand, the overwhelming sensation of power. She likes holding Cary's hip in place, adding the restriction of her hand to the already present panic of holding a possibly loaded gun. Keeping him still like that allows her to feel the inclination to move, the way his hips try to roll lazily at first, then jut out and begin to jerk abruptly as she gets really into it.

"Kalinda," he says, a warning, and she slides up his body and yanks the gun from his hand. She leaves him for a moment, rummaging in his desk until she finds a few tissues, and no sooner is he saying, "Kalinda," again, pleading this time, than she's holding on to the trigger and pointing the gun into his neck.

She doesn't need to shoot, or pretend to shoot, for him to go off into the tissues, head tipping back again, swallowing visibly. His knees wobble a little after. She smiles.

"You know, this was not about Alicia," she says, storing away the gun and licking her lips clean, "but just so you know, you were arguing the 'right'—" She shakes her head just once. "—the right side of the case. That's why she lost."

Cary doesn't answer; she watches him do up his pants from a few feet away, leaning against the door. He looks at her earnestly for a minute, waiting for a word or a kiss or a chance to return the favor.

Kalinda reaches back to turn the lock. Before heading out, she says, "I'll see you." It's a superfluous promise, on paper. Kalinda works for a law firm. Of course they'll see each other. It's not something Kalinda would feel compelled to announce.

"You will," Cary says once her back's turned.

It's good to know.


End file.
